Flames of Winter: The Wrath of the Northmen, #2

By Elizabeth Baxter

As winter's grip tightens, the true test of courage begins.

 

Once a fervent disciple of science, Bram now stands amidst the wreckage of his beliefs. Ral Tora's plans to battle the Everwinter lie in ruins, and he's been betrayed by the machinations of the Chellin court. With nowhere left to turn but northward, towards the ominous source of the Everwinter, he is haunted by the gnawing fear of what truths he may unearth amidst winter's cold heart.

 

Astrid's ambitious gamble has backfired catastrophically, costing her the throne of Chellin. Bereft of power and influence, she pins her last hope on the enigmatic Bramwell Thornley. If she can shepherd him towards his elusive destiny, she may yet reclaim her lost dominion. However, this path demands a journey northward, to the desolation of Variss—and the dark secret that awaits them there.

 

Meanwhile, Falen grapples with a harrowing realization: her father is the architect of the Everwinter's devastation. Burdened by guilt, she knows she must return to the home she was banished from, confront her father, and brave the shadows of her past, if any of them are to survive.

 

Drawn inexorably by the hand of fate, their destinies converge in the icy embrace of the north, where the ultimate reckoning awaits.

 

Embark on an epic quest through a realm where the clash of science and magic unfolds amidst the icy clutches of the Everwinter. In the second installment of The Wrath of the Northmen epic fantasy series, immerse yourself in a tale of perilous landscapes, captivating characters, and unrelenting danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Baxter
• Release date: Jun 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533793423

Book preview

Prologue

CORBAN SANDRIL, ALSO known as Roishan Darry, onetime elite soldier in the Ral Toran military, spy, assassin, and acolyte of the Council of Masters, woke to screaming pain.

It was dark. He could see nothing. He ought to be concerned about that, but he wasn’t. The pain left no room for anything else. Agony consumed him. Fire burned in the stump of his wrist, sizzling up his arm, paralyzing his shoulder and coursing through his body.

Prostrate on a cold stone floor, he curled around the stump. It was still bleeding, pouring out his life onto the dusty paving stones beneath him.

Bramwell Thornley.

A name floated through the miasma of agony. A name and a face. A face he'd never forget. The face of the man who’d maimed him. Man? Hardly. He was little more than a boy.

A strangled noise escaped Corban's throat. Who would have thought such a whelp could best Corban Sandril, the best swordsman in the Panthers? He would have laughed if he had the energy.

A torch flared and Corban squinted against the sudden blinding light. He turned his head a fraction, enough to take in his surroundings. He lay where Thornley had left him—in the burial chamber below Chellin. Above and to his right was the raised dais on which the High Priest Tamardi di Goron had planned to sacrifice the high priestess's two children and in so doing, give life to the bones of their mistress, the Marawaye who lay buried beneath Chellin. But that plan, like so many others, had gone spectacularly wrong.

He snarled in sudden fury. Thornley. It was all Thornley's fault.

Around the dais, age-darkened bones lay scattered. They were the bones of the dead Marawaye, still tumbled where that Varisean cur, Tomas, had swept them. A wry smile twisted Corban’s lips. Who would have believed the power that lay hidden in that one? He played the fool well. Too well. Another one that Corban had underestimated.

Well, he'd learned his lesson.

He looked down at his ruined arm. Through the bloody, oozing mess, the bones of his arm shone white. A sticky black pool of blood surrounded him, filling his nostrils with its iron stink.

His hand lay several paces away, fingers still curled round the hilt of the sword with which he'd tried to kill Thornley. Why was he, Corban, still alive? How long had he sprawled unconscious, dribbling his lifeblood onto the floor? Why had he woken at all?

Because I am not yet done with you.

A voice spoke through the shimmering light, threatening to crush him flat. The pressure in the room increased, as though a vast presence suddenly filled it. Corban lowered his forehead to the floor, abasing himself.

Master, he said.

Master? the voice sounded amused. Better to say mistress. I was once a queen.

A faint outline of a tall figure stood by the dais. It was a woman wearing warrior’s dress and with long golden hair in braids. It was so faint it appeared like heat-haze and he half believed his pain-addled mind was imagining it.

But the voice was definitely real.

Mistress, he whispered. You honor me.

Yes, I do, don’t I? Now prove you’re worthy of that honor. I have a task for you.

He raised his head as much as the pain would allow. A task, mistress?

The figure spread her arms, indicating the bones scattered around the chamber.

You tried to resurrect my daughter. You have earned a modicum of my respect for that. Once, my son and daughter ruled this side of the Rift. It will be so again. My armies march from the Rift even as we speak. My bloodline will take their rightful place again.

Bloodline? What did she mean? Who...who are you? Corban asked.

He thought he saw the figure smile. A harsh, cruel smile. You will discover that soon enough. For now, you may call me Lady Night.

He knew instinctively that this woman was more dangerous than any of the Masters he’d yet encountered. Her presence sent a primal, visceral fear through his body. What is your task for me, Lady Night?

Rumors have reached me that an imposter posing as a descendant of Saiis, my brother, walks this land. You will discover if this is true. If so, you will kill this interloper.

Corban’s gaze fell to his maimed hand. He was hardly in a fit state to kill anyone.

A hissing laugh filled his head. You will be given what you need, Roishan Darry.

Agony erupted through his body. He convulsed on the floor, arms and legs flopping, spittle flying from his mouth, eyeballs swelling almost to bursting. He thought he was in pain before. He was wrong. Endless, mindless agony devoured him. There was nothing, nothing but pain.

Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. He lay gasping, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling. He felt...different. There was no pain. No weakness. Instead, there was...vigor.

Stand, said the voice. Take up your sword.

Corban rolled onto his stomach, then struggled to his knees. Cradling his injured arm against his chest, he climbed to his feet. For a moment, he stood, expecting weakness or dizziness or mind-numbing pain to come. It didn't. After a moment a smile crawled across his face. He had always been promised rewards by the Masters, that's why he'd served them so diligently. Now he was beginning to reap those rewards.

Feeling strong, healthy, full of life, he walked over to his fallen sword. Crouching, he pulled the stiff fingers of the severed hand from around the sword's hilt and kicked the lifeless hunk of flesh away. With his remaining hand, he grasped the sword and lifted it.

Bind yourself to me, Lady Night said.

The sword blade suddenly flared bright white. Ice spread along its length, the searing cold making Corban pull back in alarm. His blood-soaked stump tingled. In sudden understanding, Corban pressed the flat of the freezing blade against the ruined wrist. The stink of seared flesh filled the room, but no pain came. The wound cauterized and sealed over the severed bones. His flesh knitted together, leaving behind a tender scar.

Yes, Lady Night said. Your snowbirth has begun. No cold will touch you. No obstacle will stop you. You are my faithful hound.

As Corban returned the blade to the scabbard hanging at his side, a smile curled the corners of his mouth.

I'm coming for you, Thornley, he thought. And I'm going to kill you.

Chapter 1

BRAM SQUINTED AT THE diagram and then at the wheel lying on the planks in front of him. In the dim light from the oil lamp, he turned the diagram in all directions, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. Frowning, he pulled his tape measure from the tool belt, held it against the wheel, and measured its circumference. The measurements were right, so why wasn’t it working?

If Romy was here, he’d know how to fix this, Bram thought.

But his friend was hundreds of miles away in Ral Tora while Bram was stuck on this fates-forsaken Ice Ship in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by people who thought he was some kind of—

No. Don’t think about that. Get on with the job.

Sighing, he picked up the wheel and balanced it on his shoulder. He made his precarious way down the ladder that led further below decks, holding on with one hand whilst bracing the wheel with his other. He stepped off the ladder into water that was ankle deep and cold enough to snatch his breath. The bilges of the Ice Ship Regalia were just as dark and dank as any other ship Bram had seen. Not that he had much to base this assumption on, mind you—the only ships he’d encountered had been river going vessels back in Ral Tora.

The smell of stagnant water filled his nostrils and the water sloshed as he made his way over to the rest of the contraption he’d been building.

With the help of the quartermaster—from whom he’d managed to beg several stout wooden buckets and several coils of rope—Bram had rigged up a pulley system that, if everything went to plan, would allow the crew to clear the bilges in half the time it currently took.

Bram hefted the wheel and slotted it onto the axle that stood on a wooden tripod. He curled his fingers around the handle and began to turn the wheel. It squealed for a moment, but he’d greased the mechanism thoroughly so the noise didn’t last for more than a few heartbeats. The cogs began to move, in turn moving the bigger wheel of buckets he’d attached to the pulley. The first of the buckets reached the bilge water and tipped, just as he’d designed it to do, filling with bilge water before being pulled up on the far side. When it reached the apex of the wheel’s turn, Bram pulled a lever above his head and a gear tipped the bucket the other way, emptying its contents into a long wooden tube that carried the water to the bilge-pump he was in the process of designing.

Ha! Bram crowed, even though there was nobody to hear him. Told you I had the measurements right!

If his feet hadn’t been so cold, he might have done a little jig. Then a groan caught his attention and he stared anxiously at the great turning wheel. It groaned under the weight of the water filling the buckets. Then suddenly the axle broke with an ear-splitting snap and the wheel went crashing into the water with a splash that sent freezing water cascading over Bram’s head.

Gasping and spluttering, Bram shook his head. Yes, he definitely wished Romy was here.

You’re still persevering with that? said a voice suddenly. I told you it won’t work. A wooden axle isn’t strong enough to hold that kind of weight. It will just keep snapping.

Turning, Bram saw Falen clinging to the ladder, high enough so she didn’t have to put her feet in the water. Her green eyes were fixed on Bram with a kind of bemused annoyance. Yes, she’d told him that countless times. It didn’t mean he had to listen to her though, did it?

Maybe, he muttered noncommittally. I’ll go back and check my calculations.

She stared at him for a moment before sighing. Why do you hide down here, Bram? Why throw yourself into these pointless projects?

You know why! Bram wanted to shout at her. Because if I don’t I’m sure I’ll go stark raving mad! I’m sure I’ll start believing that drivel Astrid keeps saying about me!

But aloud, all he said was, It passes the time.

Falen snorted. Right. Passes the time. You weren’t at the meeting. Again.

Bram shrugged. So? I’ve got nothing to add. Why bother listening to them all shouting at each other?

Falen’s grimace confirmed this meeting had been no different. Since the debacle in Chellin and their narrow escape, the quest had degenerated into endless rounds of bickering with no consensus reached on what they should do next.

Even so, you should have been there. It’s not good for you hiding down here. Not good for you. Not good for anyone.

He turned away, uncomfortable with the scrutiny in her gaze. How is Ravessa? he asked in a whisper.

No better. She keeps asking to see you, Bram. Why don’t you go visit her?

A stab of guilt went through him. The high priestess of Chellin, so recently delivered of twin sons, had fallen into childbed fever and was gravely ill. He hadn’t visited her, despite her requests, because he was afraid. Afraid of what she might say. Afraid of what she might reveal about him. He hated himself a little for that.

I can’t help her, he said. Astrid keeps saying I should do something, but I’m no healer. And when I refuse, she just stares at me as though I’m going to be responsible for Ravessa’s death.

Falen didn’t answer, but Bram thought he saw pity in her clear green eyes. He hated that more than he would her anger.

Father Hewin sent me with a message for you. He wants to see you and he made sure to tell you that it’s not a request.

With that, she climbed back up the ladder.

ASTRID DU LANSTRANG Av’Riny, Sword of the Goddess, once Regal of Chellin and all its domains, stood at the prow of the ship and bit her lip to keep her from howling in frustration. Her hands were clamped around Regalia’s wooden railing so hard her knuckles had turned white. Her hair streamed out behind her, blown by the warm breeze that flowed over Regalia’s decks.

Warm? she thought. What a joke that is.

The sea all around churned with whitecaps, a dull gray like iron that was only matched by the color of the sky. Even this far south, only seventy leagues from Chellin, there were chunks of ice floating in the murky water. It did not bode well for their journey north.

A driving rain curtained the sky but dissolved as it washed over Regalia’s decks as though hitting an invisible barrier. Everything inside that barrier was warm and dry. Everything, that is, except for Astrid’s mood, which was as dark and turbulent as the clouds that rolled across the sky.

Well? What are you waiting for? she snapped at the man in front of her. Get up there!

The man, a small, skinny fellow whose name escaped Astrid, shrank back as though fearing a blow. Approaching the mainmast, he shot a fearful look over his shoulder before setting his feet against the ladder and scurrying up to the crow’s nest like a spider.

Astrid glanced around. Over on the forecastle, the captain was glaring at her with his hands on hips. Astrid glared right back. If the man didn’t like her ordering his crew around, then he should bloody-well do it himself! The captain turned away and began shouting at two men coiling rope on the aft-deck. They glanced at her before quickly looking away.

What are they thinking? she thought. That I’m cursed? That the Goddess has deserted me? I don’t blame them. I wonder that myself.

She craned her head and shaded her eyes as she looked up at the crow’s nest.

Anything? she bellowed.

A tiny face appeared above the rim of the crow’s-nest and gave the signal for the negative.

Keep looking! she yelled. We won’t be caught unawares again!

Three times a day she insisted on this ritual. Three times a day she insisted on checking their trail for pursuit. Father Hewin and the captain thought it a waste of time. They’d been at sea for a week and seen no sign of pursuit. Even if Tamardi Di Goron chose to follow them rather than solidifying his grip on Chellin, he lacked the means, they argued.

Even so, Astrid refused to take chances. She’d underestimated the high priest once and lost Chellin as a result. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Her stomach tightened as the high priest’s face flashed into her mind. She couldn’t picture him without fury pounding through her veins. He was a traitor, a murderer, and a hundred other things besides. He’d tried to kill Bramwell Thornley. He’d tried to kill Ravessa’s sons. He’d called an Ice Dragon from the north to destroy her. But worst of all—worst of all! He’d concocted his plans right under her nose!

Curse him! she snarled to herself. I will return to Chellin. I will take back my kingdom. And when I do, I’ll rip out Tamardi Di Goron’s heart! I’ll douse him in oil and watch him burn, I’ll—

My lady?

Astrid jumped. A slender woman with swirling tattoos climbing each arm had approached. Astrid schooled her face to calm authority.

Charm Weaver Capella, she said with a slight nod. How fares the high priestess?

The slight tightening of Capella’s mouth told Astrid all she needed. No change, my lady. If this goes on much longer, the babes will begin to suffer too.

Astrid snorted. Those two mewling beasts? They’ll survive us all!

Despite their precarious arrival into the world, Ravessa’s twin sons were proving to be extremely robust. Constantly hungry, constantly bawling, constantly demanding the attention of Astrid’s only charm weaver, Astrid had no fears over their survival. But their mother? She was a different matter.

Astrid ran a hand over her brow. Ravessa’s health had deteriorated quickly. Now she was confined to her bed, barely conscious, and there seemed to be nothing anybody could do.

Except, perhaps, one man.

He’s still refusing then? she asked the charm weaver.

Capella’s mouth twisted into a scowl. Yes.

Astrid thumped the railing with her fist. She was surrounded by stubborn idiots, and Bramwell Thornley was the worst of them. He refused to see Ravessa. Refused to admit he might be able to help her. Refused to admit what he was.

Fool. All that power. All that potential. And he hid in the bowels of the ship like a rat.

It was all coming apart. Astrid and Ravessa’s plan had been the best part of a decade in the making. The slow climb to power, the political maneuvering, the alliances, the rivalries. And then their crowning glory: discovering the key to controlling the Everwinter.

It had seemed so easy. All she had to do was sail to Ral Tora and procure two things: an Ice Ship and the grandson of a god. It had seemed like she was chosen of the Goddess. Now what was she? A homeless refugee fleeing her enemies like a whipped dog. A deposed queen surrounded by a pitifully small band of loyal followers.

Biting her lip, she turned to face south. In that direction, many leagues away, lay Chellin.

Am I cursed, my lady? she asked her goddess. Have you abandoned me?

There was no answer but the whisper of the waves.

WITH A GRUNT, BRAM pushed on the crowbar. The floorboard didn’t move. With a frown, he leaned down, inspecting the join where the board met the joist. Thick rivets held the board in place, but Bram had already loosened them as best he could. Shifting the crowbar a little closer to a line of rivets, he gave it another try. Veins stood out in his neck. The muscles in his arms screamed. The board didn’t move an inch.

With a cry of exasperation, Bram collapsed onto the floor and stared at the floorboard in annoyance.

I thought engineers always used the correct tools, a voice rumbled from behind him. Seems I was wrong. You’ll never get the board up with that.

Barl was standing by the door. The big man had one hand on the door jamb and his head cocked to one side.

It’s all I could find, Bram muttered.

Barl walked over and crouched next to Bram. Does Astrid know you’re trying to pull holes in her ship?

"Her ship? Bram snorted. This is Ral Tora’s ship, remember? We’ve only leant it to her."

Barl raised an eyebrow. "You reckon? You think she’ll give Regalia back when all this is over?"

Bram shrugged irritably.

What are you doing, anyway? Barl asked. Why are you trying to pull up the floor?

I’m looking for pipes, Bram replied. "I think I’ve figured out why Regalia stays warm. There must be an internal relay on board that produces heat, probably through the friction of waves against the hull. That heat must be pumped through the ship by pipes running through the decks and between the walls." 

Have you found anything yet?

Bram frowned. Barl sounded like Falen: deliberately patient, even though he thought Bram was crazy.

Not yet, he said, a little defensively.

It makes sense, he thought. It does. Even if they can’t see it. I’ll find how this thing is powered. Everything has a logical explanation. A scientific one. You just have to find it.

Did you want something, Barl? he asked. Or has Falen sent you down here to try and coax me above deck? I’m a little busy.

The commander didn’t answer his question. Some might say you’re avoiding something.

I’m not avoiding anything! Bram snapped. I’m an engineer, so I’m engineering. What’s wrong with that?

Barl held his hands up. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Bram looked away, staring into the darkness of Regalia’s hold. He’d brought only a single lamp down here and it lit only the tiny space around him and Barl. Everything else was darkness. He had no right to talk to Barl like that. Not after what happened in Chellin. Not after the sacrifices the Panthers had made to save them.

An image suddenly flared in his mind. An image he saw every night in his dreams.

The soldiers on the harbor scattered in terror. A huge flying creature with ice covering its scales swooped and plucked up Captain Talerick. Its talons sliced through him, raining down blood and gore. A volley of arrows arced into the air but ricocheted harmlessly off the creature’s hide. Angered, it dived again and Bram yelled in anguish as Saskia, his friend, was swept aside by its claws.  

Bram? Are you all right? Barl’s hand squeezed his shoulder.

Shuddering, Bram passed a hand over his face. How can you stand it? he whispered.

Barl’s hand squeezed tighter for a second before letting go. He sighed. We don’t. We just learn to live with it. Like you must now, lad. What’s happened has happened. You can’t change the past, and no amount of moping down here will change that.

It’s not that simple, Bram said, shaking his head. Serz died, Saskia died, because of me.

Saskia was a soldier, Barl said. She knew what she’d signed up for. She gave her life to save her comrades, there’s no better death for a soldier than that.

But...but... Bram struggled to frame his thought into coherence.

But nothing! Barl growled. Burn my beard, lad, will you demean Saskia’s sacrifice by claiming responsibility for her actions? Everything she did was of her own choosing. Don’t take that from her.

Bram looked at the big man. Barl stared back with an unwavering gaze.

No, of course not. Sorry.

And don’t be sorry either. Roast my behind, but you’ve been down here too long! I’m glad Hewin sent me.

Father Hewin?

"Apparently, he’s already sent Falen down here to ask you to go see him. I’m told you ignored that request. So here I am. Only this time, it’s not a request. Father Hewin’s exact words were, if he doesn’t come willingly, you have my permission to tie him up and carry him." The commander smiled sweetly at Bram.

Wonderful, Bram replied, realizing he had no choice. Well, shall we go? We don't want to keep the good father waiting, do we?

Barl clapped him on the shoulder. Ha! I knew you’d see sense, lad!

They climbed the various ladders up through Regalia’s lower decks until they came out into the sleeping quarters. Barl nudged him towards the door to Father Hewin’s cabin and then stood there with his arms crossed, perhaps making sure Bram didn’t run.

Bram rapped on the door. After a moment, Hewin’s muffled voice called for him to enter. Bram found the city father hunched over a tiny table, a pair of spectacles held up to his nose as he stared at a piece of parchment so big it covered the entire table and hung over the edges to the floor.

Bram took a deep breath. Father Hewin, I know what you're going to say, but I had my reasons as I hope you can understand—

Ha! Hewin called suddenly. It's so obvious! Why didn't I see it before? He tapped the parchment with his finger. If only Rassus could see this!

Um, what? Bram said hesitantly.

Father Hewin looked up. For a second, he seemed surprised to see Bram standing there, but then his eyes lit. Ah! Bram! So Barl found you? Excellent! Come here!

Bram crossed to the table and leaned over to get a look at what had the city father so excited. The parchment looked like plans for some kind of ventilation system. The black and white line drawings showed buildings with a vent system running underneath. Arrows showed the direction that hot air could be directed through the building. Instructions had been scribbled all over the plan, but they were in a script that Bram didn’t recognize. From the way the parchment had gone yellow and brittle, Bram guessed this was old. Very old.

He was intrigued. He’d never seen such a system before. Each individual building had its own vent system and the diagram showed several points underneath where fires would be lit, providing the hot air to heat the building. It reminded Bram of the system he, Rassus, Falen, and the rest of the Ral Toran Engineering Guild had been working on. They’d been designing something similar for the city: a network of pipes that ran beneath the buildings, carrying curileum, a fuel that could be pumped into people’s homes and burned to provide heat and warmth.

The project should have been the engineers’ greatest triumph, but it had gone spectacularly wrong. An explosion had caused the collapse of the north wall and cost many lives.

It was that disaster that had sent them all on this quest.

What would I be doing right now if everything had gone to plan? Bram thought. Sitting in a tavern drinking with Romy? Going to a play with Seth? Arguing with Falen about our latest engineering project?

What is it? Bram asked, leaning over Father Hewin’s shoulder.

I found these plans in Chellin, would you believe? The royal palace might have been a den of vipers, but they also had an amazing amount of knowledge accumulated there. Father Hewin’s tone suggested he thought such knowledge was wasted on the Chellins. But this isn’t actually from Chellin, it’s from Variss. Falen tells me it’s a plan of a hypocaust system.

A what?

I’d never heard of it either. A hypocaust. It’s the way homes are heated in Variss. He pointed at the diagram with one bony finger. Look here. The floors in Varisean houses are raised on brick pillars, leaving a void beneath the floor. This void is then heated via a piping system with fires burning at strategic points.

Yes! said Bram excitedly. He pointed at a diagram of the airflow. I can see how this would work. These vents, if arranged correctly, would pull the heated air through the system and into the cavities below the floor. If the floor is made of a porous material such as brick, the heat would warm the floors. His excitement grew as the implications took hold. And as hot air rises, this could heat an entire building! Under-floor heating! It’s genius!

Father Hewin raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm. Yes it is. But, I’m afraid, also utterly useless to us. I’ve had long talks with Falen about this whilst you’ve been...um...busy below decks. It won’t work in Ral Tora.

How do you know that? I’m sure it could be adapted. This might be just what we need. If we...

He trailed off as he realized Father Hewin had sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He was watching Bram intently.

Rassus always said you had the potential to be chief engineer one day.

Bram gaped. Rassus had said that? But he was always telling Bram how useless he was!

So, Hewin continued. Why wouldn’t this work in Ral Tora?

The city father had taken on that tone he always did when lecturing. He knew the answer but he wanted Bram to work it out for himself.

Leaning closer, Bram studied the diagram, running his eyes over the stark black